


Cutting It Close

by SashaDistan



Series: Well Groomed [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Boys Kissing, Dom/sub Undertones, Fear of Discovery, Fluff and Smut, Gay Shiro (Voltron), Hair-pulling, Haircuts, Hand Jobs, M/M, Personal Attention, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Pre-Kerberos Mission, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Sneaking Around, Top Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaDistan/pseuds/SashaDistan
Summary: Shiro needs a haircut, and he already knows that Keith is good with knives. There's only a certain number of things which could possibly go awry, right?
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Well Groomed [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1652521
Comments: 40
Kudos: 167





	Cutting It Close

**Author's Note:**

> Again, It's pre-kerb, so Keith is 17ish, but here that's above the age of consent. meh.

There’s a big crowd in the simulator observation room today. They’re running whole class tests in the solo-sim. Generally considered to be the hardest to pilot, and the least favourite of everyone at the Garrison – and the class is required to watch their peers until they inevitably crash into an asteroid. Some don’t even make it that far, nosediving into the hanger floor with a variety of realistic sounding destruction noises and vibrations, because if there’s one thing which throws a cadet off balance, it’s performance anxiety. Shiro doesn’t actually need to be here, not in any official capacity, but a good third of the students are ones he TAs _introductory astrophysics_ for – the only level of physics he feels qualified to assist with – and besides, Keith is technically in this class and has to take the solo-sim test too; despite the fact that his usual simulator flight team is usually comprised of two Junior Officers.

The latest cadet exits the simulator looking a little green in the face, having just flipped the craft and smashed spectacularly into rogue debris. Iverson marks several things on his chart, doubtless none of them good – the run only lasted three minutes – then glances across the observation room.

“Cadet Kogane, you’re up.”

Beside him, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across the front of his rumpled uniform jacket, Keith jerks forward with a scowl. Shiro knows it’s not for the sim – there’s nothing Keith loves better than flying – but the audience is something he’s not keen on.

“Patience, Spitfire,” Shiro murmurs, low enough for it to be covered by the general hubbub of the room.

“Yeah yeah. I’m plenty focused.” Keith shoots him a sidelong look only one step down from an actual glare, and Shiro forces down his sun-bright grin. Keith’s disinterested nonchalance is as much a cover as Shiro’s fraternal and supportive smile.

As Keith crosses the observation room – equipped with holo-screens to show the pilot’s chair, the instrument readouts, and the visual simulation scenario – and heads to the simulator chamber, a fair few of his peers watch him with none too charitable expressions. There is one muttered comment along the lines of _‘fucking prodigy my ass’_ , but whoever it is isn’t brave or foolish enough to let Shiro catch them. He folds his arms across his chest and casts a damning glare across the heads of the group anyway, and no one says anything else after that.

The technician in the simulator is checking Keith’s straps – as though he’s not done this a hundred times before – and setting up the recording for his comms before they exit and shut the hatch. On screen, Shiro watches as Keith takes the controls in one hand, dials the engine boot sequence like he’s choosing options from a takeout menu, smacks the start-up button, and uses both joysticks to lift the craft smoothly from the hanger floor before shooting out into open space.

Watching Keith pilot is second only to the joy of piloting _with_ Keith, and soon enough all mutters and whispers from the other cadets die down, because since he got paired with Shiro and Matt half a year previously, none of them have seen him fly. Keith _was_ good. Preternaturally gifted the first time he stepped into a flight simulator, and since then his skills have increased a hundred-fold. He bends the craft around some scattered debris, deploys flares in order to clear a path through the edge of a broken solar array, then slingshots his way around a very large asteroid before barrel rolling his craft and pulling up onto his intended flight path with the smoothest little flick of the wrist that Shiro has ever seen. The other cadets wear expressions ranging from hot jealously, through queasy motion sickness, to gaping disbelief that what they’re seeing is real.

Keith whisks through the rest of the simulation, getting far further than any of his peers, and Shiro can school his expression, though not his wildly excited pulse, as Keith docks his craft to a space station to collect supplies. He negotiates another asteroid belt and the magnetic distortion of the rings of Saturn, correctly angles his ship for atmospheric re-entry, and brings his craft through a screen of heat and fire to coast to a perfect, flawless stop exactly on the centre of the marked target. Shiro doesn’t think even he could have done it so smoothly. The interior camera feed shuts off as he lifts off his headgear and starts displaying his flight scores and stats to the silent room. The moment the observation doors swish open, the noise starts up again, and there are a dozen questions being thrown towards Keith. The cadet avoids them all, just as agile in this as he was in the simulator, and walks with his head held high towards where Shiro is waiting against the back wall. Matt has slipped in and joined him at some point, and Shiro wonders how distracted he was not to notice his friend’s appearance. Keith makes it about halfway before someone makes some obnoxiously loud comment and ruins the mood.

“I mean, _how the actual fuck_ is that possible? He’s gotta have an inside line on the code-” is as far as the cadet gets before one of their smarter friends shuts them up with a hand to the face. It’s not one of Shiro’s TA students, and they are closer to Iverson, who is already striding over to write the cadet up for _Inappropriate Language, Spreading Malicious Gossip_ , and probably _Minor Insubordination_ for the inference that someone – Shiro or Matt – is helping Keith to cheat. But the damage is done, and in one look Shiro can tell that Keith’s elation with his run in the simulator is ruined.

Keith’s shoulders thump into the wall between him and Matt with force, and Shiro forces his voice to be measured – supportive but only friendly – when he speaks.

“That was some flying there, Spitfire.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Keith bites off his words, then exhales, his flinty demeanour softening by a fraction. “Thanks Shiro.”

“Felt good right? That was a neat little roll you did there.”

“Yeah...” Keith’s smile reaches his eyes finally. “Felt good.”

Shiro keeps his fingers interlinked behind his back, certain that if he allows himself even a modicum of freedom, he won’t be able to resist touching Keith. And a friendly, warm hand on the shoulder is safe, but Shiro knows now what it’s like to allow his grip to slip and pour from shoulder to bicep and splay his fingers across Keith’s ribs over his t-shirt, and he’s not sure he could resist. Matt notices him looking and coughs none to subtly into his hand. His timing is impeccable, because Iverson is waving Keith over to talk about his scores. When Keith leavers himself off the wall, the motion causes his shoulder to brush Shiro’s arm and a flick of his hair follows. Shiro gazes after him: he still doesn’t know what Keith’s hair feels like between his fingers.

Matt rubs a hand over his face to mask his disconcerted expression.

“Dare I ask?”

Shiro rubs a hand over the back of his hair, twisting the strands between his fingertips.

“Is my hair getting too long?”

“What?” Matt frowns. “I mean, kind of? Any worse and you’ll start to match each other.” He peers over at Keith, who looks decidedly uncomfortable receiving praise and answering questions from Iverson. Shiro knows why, because Iverson will want to know _how_ and _why_ Keith flew like he did, and the only reason Keith will be able to give him is ‘because’. “What kind of hairstyle do you call that anyway? It’s like a mulle- oh, you’re not listening. Earth to Shiro?” Matt nudges hard into his ribs. “Shiro? Seriously dude, people are going to notice you looking at him like that.”

“Like what?” Shiro asks, not stopping in the slightest. It’s fine, no one is paying him any attention, not when Keith just smashed every solo-sim record laid before him.

“Like you want to eat him, or you want him to eat you.” Matt throws up his hands in an approximation of trying to claws his own eyes out. “Oh Jesus Christ Matt- shut up! You’re just making it worse for yourself.”

Shiro blinks, catching the end of his friend’s ramble, and finally pulls his gaze away from Keith and the shiny, ink-dark spill of his hair. The cadet uniforms are a famously unattractive shade of orange, but the colour somehow just makes Keith, with his sharp features and mile long legs, seem more otherworldly and beautiful. Aware that’s he’s lost focus, he frowns at Matt.

“Sorry… what?”

Matt sighs dramatically.

“Yes. You need a haircut.”

“What does he need?” Keith has made his way back over to them, his classmates envious glances sliding off him. He’s untouchable.

Matt glances anxiously between the two of them, a thread of horror rising in his expression.

“No. No no. I’ve seen that look before. Bye… don’t do anything stupid in public!” And with that he vanishes with surprising haste for someone who avoids all forms of physical exercise beyond the mandated Garrison minimum.

Keith turns to meet Shiro’s eyes, now that everyone in the room has lost interest in them once more. Someone else is in the simulator and they are really bigging themselves up over the comms though they must surely be aware the observers can hear them. Keith’s posture and face slip into something more relaxed. It’s not quite the same Keith from their study sessions or stargazing, because that’s a version of himself Keith would never allow anyone else to see, but it’s closer.

“What was Matt on about?”

“I need a haircut.” Shiro rubs his hand into the back of his hair again, mostly to stop himself from reaching for Keith, and partly because now he’s smiling at his friend, all he can think about is how it felt to have Keith’s fingers pulling his hair.

“Well... as long as it’s not all of it. I’ll help you.”

“Yeah?” Shiro fights his body’s desire to flush at the comment, and wins narrowly.

“Yeah.” Keith’s smile is a wry thing, lip pinned by his teeth at the corner. “Good with knives, remember?”

*

For this, the bathroom is too small. It’s not that either of them mind standing close together – that bridge has been crossed, burned, the ashes scattered into space – but there’s no way Keith can move around him like he needs to without one of them ending up standing in the shower stall. The idea of _Keith_ and _shower_ in the same reality makes Shiro want to go and take a bath in glacial run off, but instead he watches his friend pull out one of the folding all-purpose desk and dining chairs his room comes equipped with and set in the centre of the poky living room.

They _have been_ studying up until this point. It’s the usual day for Keith to come by with an armful of homework and spread out all over his floor whilst Shiro marks assignments and does his own advanced studies reading. Matt had sent a text to say he wouldn’t be joining them, because Keith’s performance on the solo-sim now means that writing and checking new code is Top Priority for the development team, and Professor Holt wants his input. Keith’s been working on a mathematical re-entry problem that made him snort derisively, because _I’d never have fucked up bad enough to get in that situation to begin with_ , and Shiro has managed to read the same section of the same assignment six times and absorbed none of it.

When Keith rolled over – and stars, Keith lying supine on his floor and grinning up at him with a soft and lazy smile Shiro last saw when they were kissing on the roof is a sight which is going to stay with him forever – and suggested they get started, Shiro pushed his work aside in relief. Now he stares at the chair and Keith standing beside it, knowing that no one should ever look so appealing when all the boy is doing is opening and closing a pair of scissors, and half wondering what Matt would say if he knew.

“So… you ever done this before?” Shiro can’t help his soft smirk, already knowing the answer.

There is an easy glint in Keith’s eyes when he repeats himself.

“No. I mean, I watched a video.” Keith’s eyes follow him as he takes a seat. “You’re gonna end up with hair in your shirt.”

“Oh...” Shiro glances down at his lap. He’s wearing sweatpants, because it’s bad enough spending all day in constricting uniform without forcing himself to be uncomfortable in what little downtime they get, but underneath has on snug boxer briefs which are at least trying to hold him in check. Shiro can feel the flush spreading across his cheeks echoed by the twitch in his pants as he thinks about the fact that he’s going to be shirtless.

“You wanna take it off?”

He looks back up at Keith, and finds himself held fast by his violet tinted gaze.

“Shiro...” He swears Keith’s voice has dropped an octave. “Take off your shirt.”

Shiro rushes to comply, hauling the thin fabric off over his head one handed. He must imagine the soft appreciative noise Keith makes. He must, because the idea that him just being topless has done something to Keith has made his vision go faintly blurry at the edges. He glances up through the soft focus of his lashes to see Keith watching him intently.

“That’s good.”

Shiro swallows audibly, and with the utmost lack of subtlety, crosses his hands over his lap. Keith’s upper lip curls in an echo of a smirk, the same look he had when he’d walked out of their first ever team piloting exercise, having smashed yet another of Shiro’s records; and Shiro feels his heart stutter against his ribs.

“So… you know what kind of haircut you want?”

Oh yeah, the haircut. Shiro forcibly pulls his mind out of the gutter and yanks the leash of his self-control around his anatomy.

“Whatever you think will look good, Spitfire. I trust you.”

Keith tilts his head to one side, considering him, his own overly long bangs falling into his face. Shiro fervently hopes his never cuts them.

“You’re going to hate me if I make you look like an idiot.”

“Not possible.” Shiro replies quickly.

Keith doesn’t ask for a clarification on which part of his comment is the most unlikely scenario, though he knows – just like everyone else at the Garrison does – that Shiro consistently scores in the top ninety-fifth percentile on theory exams. Matt grades even higher than that, and Shiro is certain once his little sister Katie is old enough to enrol, the Garrison is going to have to invent a whole new higher tier of results for the youngest Holt. Shiro can practically see Keith’s mind working – they know each other too well for it to be otherwise – and just before Keith opens his mouth to interject that it is possible for Shiro not to like him, Shiro grins in a deliberately bratty manner.

“Anyway, you said you were good with knives.”

Keith makes a noise akin to a snarl, brows lowered as he reaches for the scissors once more. And it really shouldn’t do things to Shiro to see Keith’s hands fondling the very everyday object, but he’s glad his sitting down, because his spine has become molten.

“Damn right I am.” Keith steps forward between his knees and suddenly he is too close for Shiro to adequately cope with. “Now hush and let me concentrate.”

Shiro resists letting the ‘yes sir’ resting on his tongue slip out, unsure of how it might land, and watches as Keith holsters the scissors in his belt and pulls a comb from his back pocket instead. This close, it’s hard to focus on anything much besides the distracting half-imagined shapes in Keith’s jeans, and Shiro lets his eyes slip shut just as Keith’s fingers reach out to stroke over his hair. It’s a simple gesture, sort of purposeless from the point of view of a haircut, and Shiro almost allows himself to press up into the touch. But Keith told him to be still, and for Keith, Shiro will be good.

Keith caresses his head again, all fingers not holding the comb smoothing over his skull, and Shiro hears his exhale.

“Silky… so nice.”

Fingers touch the tips of his ears and begin to trace twin lines across the front of his hair to his temples. Keith repeats the gesture, then again more firmly, clearing measuring something, and Shiro is really glad he closed his eyes already because just this light touch is almost overwhelming. On the next pass, Keith’s fingers start at his temples and slide around his head, hands meeting at the back of his scalp. Keith shifts forward slightly, socked feet padding gently on the floor as he moves, and for the briefest second Shiro feels the warm fabric of Keith’s t-shirt against the tip of his nose. He is not proud of the deep breath he takes, inhaling as much of Keith’s natural scent as he can – some combination of Garrison issued soap and laundry detergent, earthy spice and musky heat which Shiro knows from their sparring sessions – before Keith steps away.

Though he wasn’t told not to look, Shiro doesn’t open his eyes, and steadies his breathing as he listens to Keith moving around him. The contrasting touch of the comb is sudden but not uncomfortable, and Shiro let’s himself relax further as he feels Keith part his hair. He keeps the sections above the line he is creating out of the way with clips, and Shiro is left wondering where Keith got hair clips. He cracks open one eye just in time to see one in Keith’s fingers – it is red and shiny – and suddenly all Shiro can think about is the idea that Keith wears hair clips to keep his fringe back when he is doing… he doesn’t know, but he desperately wants to find out. Keith spends a long time checking the level of the parting, his fingers running over the line enough times for Shiro to memorize the action and work out that he is about to be on the receiving end of some kind of undercut. When he hears the scissors opening again, Shiro has to remind himself not to shiver, though he’s not the slightest bit cold.

Keith moves to stand behind him, and Shiro feels the pressure of the comb, the scissors moving alongside the plastic teeth, and then short strands of cut hair are falling onto his nape and down his back. It’s ticklish, and perhaps a bit itchy, but after a moment Keith huffs on him, warm breath raising goose bumps of surprise on his skin. After that, Keith starts talking as he works.

“I can’t believe how nice your hair is. I can actually, I can believe it. All of you is… nice.” Keith’s confident and deliberate gestures are a little at odds with his slightly uncertain tone, and Shiro realises he is trying to fill the silence with something. “You can probably even get away with just using that 3-1 combination shower gel they provide us with, right?” He clicks his tongue. “I have to condition mine, even if just a little bit. It’s about the only thing I actually buy from the exchange store.”

“Keith...”

Behind him, all movement stops.

“Shiro?”

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Shiro reminds him, smiling reassuringly even though Keith can’t see him from his current position. “I’m still just me.”

“Oh… yeah. Well, now it’s going to be you with better hair.”

“Just do your thing, Spitfire.”

Keith is quiet after that, and Shiro allows his mind to go slack. He didn’t really understand meditation as a child, watching his grandparents pray and then quiet themselves, gathering energy just from being mindfully still. Now the ridged texture of the comb moves rhythmically against his scalp; there’s the soft snick-snick of the scissors blades rising and falling against the plastic; the sensation of Keith’s hand braced against his head. The light pressure of his fingers, the indecipherable words he murmurs to himself, and Shiro feels his breath deepen and even out. His heart beats, strong and slow in his chest, and he knows he could happily stay right here forever. Keith’s presence moves, unseen, around him, working methodically and with confidence, because that is the only way Keith knows how to be.

When Keith unsnaps the clips from his hair, he’s soft and careful, and Shiro barely stirs from his silent reverie. Keith’s thumb traces up his forehead as his fingers card through the front section of his hair, and then Shiro is lost once more to the soft edge on edge noise of the scissors, and the faint sliding tug of Keith holding his hair to the correct length as he cuts.

Time seems elastic, and at some point Keith stands behind him again, scissors discarded, and runs all ten digits through his hair, testing the length. Shiro can feel the heat of his body behind him. He wants nothing more than to lean back into that sensation, but before he can move, Keith is cradling the side of his jaw with one slightly calloused palm, and his other fingers are rubbing across the back of Shiro’s head through the now short buzzed texture of his undercut.

“Mmm… feels really nice.”

Keith shifts, and now Shiro’s head is actually pressed against his abdomen. He’s fought Keith plenty, and though Shiro doesn’t actually think Keith could snap his neck, it wouldn’t put it past the boy who seems to find reserves of strength in his wiry frame that other people would kill for. But he trusts Keith to hold his head, cancelling any thoughts of free movement. Shiro let’s himself do nothing but feel Keith’s hands in his hair and on his skin, indulging in the feel of his pulse through where they touch, listening to those indescribable, intimate noises of Keith’s internal organs working away.

“Stay here. I’m just gonna go get your razor to clean up the edges.”

The lack of contact is jarring, even though he knew it was coming, and Shiro opens his eyes in time to see Keith’s slender shape vanishing into his tiny en-suite. He uses the moment of semi-privacy to take a deep, lung clearing breath, and then Keith is back, the straight razor flicking open between his fingers and Shiro can’t tear his eyes away. Keith smiles, a proud, confident thing, then steps close and tilts Shiro’s head to the side without any resistance. His smooth, self-assured manner is reflected in the quick, clean swipes of the well-honed blade against Shiro’s skin as Keith trims around his sideburns, folding his ear forward to tidy up around his hairline. When he switches sides, Shiro inclines his head automatically and Keith’s fingers slide down his neck and pause on the spot where his heart thuds the loudest, just above his clavicle. Shiro gulps.

“Your heart sped up...” Keith voice is just a little bit wondrous, like he can’t believe Shiro has something as normal as a heartbeat. “Is that because of me?”

“Yes.” It’s an easy thing to admit. He trusts Keith with this, with everything.

“Oh...” They both stand silent and unmoving, overly aware of Keith’s fingers on Shiro’s pulse and the way his heart stammers whenever Keith applies even a micron of pressure more. “You like it.”

It’s not a question.

It feels like a long time later when Keith pushes fingers into his hair in a silent command to straighten his head, then instantly tips him forward as he moves behind to do a final trim around the nape of his neck. Shiro wonders if a very sharp knife is supposed to feel quiet so nice at the back of his skull, and decides probably everything feels good when it’s Keith in control. When he hears Keith fold the straight razor and put it aside, he’s almost sorry it’s over. Keith’s hands return to him instantly, fingers running and weaving through the longer strands of his hair and making little twists in his fringe.

“Perfect.”

“Yeah?” Shiro reaches up tentative fingers, delighted when Keith guides his hand to feel the different textures of his undercut: clean shaven skin, the short buzz of the sides, the thicker section on top ending with his long and fluffy fringe. “So how did you come to pick this hairstyle?”

He senses, rather than feels, Keith’s blush.

“Keith?”

Keith mumbles something, and Shiro catches the words ‘ _picture_ ’, and ‘ _hot_ ’, and ‘ _abs_ ’ before Keith stutters into an obviously embarrassed silence. Shiro changes the angle of his hand and then their positions are reversed as his wraps big fingers around Keith’s wrist, stilling the hand moving in his newly shorn and styled hair. He strokes the pad of his thumb over the tender skin there, and this time they can both feel Keith’s heart as it beats much faster than a resting rate should.

“Tell me?” Shiro does not beg, but it’s close. “Please?”

Keith huffs, a sharp exhale Shiro knows will make his unruly bangs flutter over brows drawn low, and uses his free hand to play with Shiro’s fringe from behind.

“Fine. So… I was browsing online. And I saw this picture alongside some post about a new workout routine, and I clicked through to the guy’s site and…. He’s shirtless and hot and he’s got abs like yours- only not as nice! Obviously.”

Shiro preens a little at the comment, and Keith’s fingers press firmly against his crown, as though to quiet and soothe an over excitable puppy.

“And he had cool hair. After that I looked up what an undercut actually was and all the guys with it were kind of… pretty. And you’re _very_ pretty so…. Yeah. That.”

Shiro grins, this time doing nothing to hide the brightness of the gesture. The fact that the only time Keith sounded fully confident during his whole blurted explanation was when describing Shiro as ‘very pretty’ is not lost on him. He wonders if it’s strange Keith would rather compliment him than admit he finds anyone else attractive. He files the thought away for later dissection as he releases Keith’s wrist and returns his hands to his lap.

“So, do I look as good as you hoped?”

The question makes Keith move around to his front, fingers anchored in his hair the entire time, and it feels like it’s been an age since he got to actually look at Keith. Shiro had forgotten, somehow, how hot and delicious that intense expression on his sharp boned face is. Keith’s fingers tighten sharply, a fist holding his fringe, and he uses the hold to turn Shiro’s head from side to side very slightly, frowning as he inspects his handiwork.

“Better.” He concludes finally, and between one heartbeat and the next, Keith steps over Shiro’s thigh and sits gently over his crotch before Shiro can even pull his hands out of the way. Shiro makes a noise of protest and surprise, but Keith quiets him. “Hush. Stay.”

“O-OK.”

Keith pulls his lower lip between his teeth, and between that and pressure on either side of his hands, Shiro can think of little else.

“Good boy.”

Now he can think of nothing else.

Keith shifts his weight a couple of times before he settles, the balls of his feet still touching the floor, but clearly not taking much of his weight. Shiro’s got that, and it’s oddly comfortable. Better when Keith slides both arms over his bare shoulders, bringing them closer together before he crooks an elbow and starts to run his fingers through Shiro’s short undercut. Keith is pressed against him from neck to thigh, his legs slotting perfectly over Shiro’s hips in a way that forces Shiro to think of cold snow and icy winds lest he lose control of himself. He is hot and roused under his crossed hands.

“Can I kiss you?”

Shiro swallows dryly, nodding. Keith’s fingers tighten in his hair, briefly painful in the nicest way possible.

“Use your words, Hotshot.”

Shiro actually whines, and he’d be embarrassed about it, but it’s _Keith_. He’s never had a secret from Keith – except that up until very recently he’s been hiding just how much he adores him – and he’s not going to start with this one. Keith’s lips twitch in a smirk, eyes shining, but he’s still awaiting his answer.

“Yes. Please.”

“Mmmm…. Good boy.”

Keith tilts his head and fits their mouths together perfectly, his tongue pushing Shiro’s lips apart without pause, sweeping into him and Shiro has no resistance left to crumple. Whatever excuses he could have made to himself about this were left up on the roof a week ago along with the sun-bleached chair Keith had used to lock the door. Shiro just sits there, helpless to resist anything Keith wants, willing to give him everything he asks for. Keith turns the kiss wet and open just as Shiro feels he’s running out of oxygen, and he practically pants into Keith’s mouth, tongues still lapping at each other as they drink the air. Keith bites softly at his lip and Shiro wishes he had his hands free, because he wants to the crush the smaller boy against his chest and never let him go.

But Keith’s in charge, and Shiro is good with that. Keith wants him to be good, so he stays just where he is and kisses him back for all he’s worth.

“God- Shiro…” Keith doesn’t seem to have anything else to say as he breaks the kiss, eyes dark as they gaze at each other. Shiro stares at the shiny wet redness of Keith’s lips, feeling intensely proud that he is the cause of their softly swollen plumpness.

“Keith.”

Keith scrapes his fingernails across Shiro’s scalp in response, making him shudder all the way down to his toes.

“I want you to touch me.” Keith’s words are quiet but certain. “I like your hands.” He tilts his pelvis and grinds his hips against Shiro’s knuckles: Shiro practically loses all his cool right there. “They’re big.”

Shiro knows he’s done for, and there’s no coming back from this. He’s not sure there ever was.

“Um...” he can feel the heat of Keith everywhere they touch – which is a lot of places – but especially on his hands, and Keith burns hotter than he does by a measurable margin. “Are you sur-”

Keith interrupts him with the pad of his thumb pressing between his parted lips, sitting on his tongue. His other hand tightens in Shiro’s hair, and Shiro follows the wordless instruction to meet Keith’s eyes. Keith’s brows make a hard line across his face.

“Shiro… Do I look like I’m unsure about anything?”

“No.” Shiro says around the digit in his mouth.

“So are you going to be good for me?”

“Yes.” Keith slips his thumb from Shiro’s mouth and smears the spit slick digit against the corner of his lips. Shiro feels his dick jump in the tight confines of his underwear with the motion. “Keith….”

“Touch me.” Keith commands, and Shiro is helpless but to follow.

He twists his wrist, and suddenly it’s his palm and not his knuckles that Keith is pressing into and that’s so much more overwhelming and erotic. Keith makes a little half bitten back moan of pleasure, and Shiro feels it ricochet around his skull. He is suddenly very aware that he would do absolutely anything to hear Keith make that sound again. He cups Keith through the stiff denim of his jeans and squeezes appreciatively.

“Good boy.”

“Nnnnghh.” Shiro isn’t sure how he could describe the sound he just made. Wanton or wanting, maybe both. Keith seems pleased though, his smile soft and hot and a little crooked.

“Keep going.”

Shiro hesitates with his fingers on the button fly of Keith’s jeans, but Keith tugs on his hair and then thrusts his tongue into his mouth with no preamble. Shiro forgets about being nervous, because Keith is warm, firm, solid, and demanding in his lap and under his hand. The kiss is all tongue and the sharp nips of Keith’s teeth and Shiro groans into his mouth as Keith wraps his arm more securely around the back of his neck. They break to pant for air, and Keith’s lips move against the skin of his jaw when he speaks.

“Touch me. It’s only three buttons Shiro.”

Buttons are hard to do with just his left hand – his other hand is still pinned to his lap and Keith’s adjusted the angle of his thigh in a way that would make it awkward to release – but Shiro manages, tugging Keith’s fly open to expose the tented V of his underwear. They’re red, really red, and Shiro feels his heart lodge in his throat at the sight. Keith’s forehead comes to rest against his own and Shiro know he’s breathing really hard as he looks down the hard muscles of his own chest to see Keith’s erection slowly revealed as he pulls down the front of his boxers.

“Oh Spitfire...” Shiro’s not aware that he’s spoken until he hears his own voice in his ears, and then Keith’s super soft laugh, like Shiro’s just said something incredibly enchanting. “Pretty.” He manages after a long pause of just staring.

“Yeah?” Keith sounds pleased. “Touch.”

Keith’s cock is like the rest of him; taut, long, beautiful. It fits perfectly in Shiro’s hand, and his skin is is like liquid silk moving over a muscle hard as stone but hot like lava. Shiro draws his fist all the way up, the purplish tip disappearing inside his foreskin, before dragging his hand down again, feeling Keith’s hips hitch against his obliques with the motion.

“Like this?” Shiro asks, clearly a glutton for punishment.

“That’s good Hotshot. Tighter.”

Shiro does as he’s commanded. He strokes Keith just the way the boy wants, the movement of his hand lashed to the tone and power of Keith’s voice. He twists his wrist when Keith tells him to, drags the pad of his thumb over the head, collecting precum from the slit and spreading it down Keith’s shaft exactly as instructed. Keith moans openly, fingers moving rhythmically against his scalp, blunt nails digging into the nape of his neck as Shiro strokes him. Keith kisses him hard and full of passion, breaking only to cup his jaw and make promises of how good he’s going to make Shiro feel later – as though Shiro isn’t already in utter bliss just from Keith’s voice and his fingers in his hair. Keith kisses his neck, peppering his throat and collar with bites and soothing presses of his tongue, and Shiro whimpers into the silky texture of Keith’s hair.

“F-Faster...” Keith is panting too now, the thighs around Shiro clamping tight to his hips. Keith’s grip in his hair is tense, his cock wet and slick with his arousal as Shiro jerks him with his fist. “‘m close. So close- Shiro…” His name is practically a whine in Keith’s voice, Shiro doesn’t think it’s ever sounded better.

“Keith...”

Keith makes a choked sound, teeth sink into the base of Shiro’s neck in a manner he can only describe as _delicious_ and then Keith is shaking apart in his lap – and Shiro hasn’t got a free hand to hold onto him – as he comes in Shiro’s fist, streaking his abs and chest with his orgasm.

There is a long moment of stunned, awed silence, and then Keith raises his head, leaning back to look down at them both, keeping himself anchored with a strong hand wrapped around the back of Shiro’s neck. He looks perfectly dishevelled, a little sweaty and mussed up, his cheeks nearly lilac with his blush, his lips damp and over-kissed in the best way. Shiro did that, and the pride makes his heart swell in his chest. Keith grins, a lazy, predatory gesture, as he scans the mess he’s made on Shiro’s torso.

“Looking good, Hotshot.”

Shiro gapes at him, feeling the bright red, heated flush which spreads across his entire chest.

“Oh my god! Keith!”

He tries to bury his face out of sight, but Keith takes his jaw again, and his fingers are so soft this time, like Shiro is breakable, and kisses him with a gentle restraint so at odds with the fire in Shiro’s veins that it has his toes curling.

“You’re perfect.” Keith says, deeply earnest.

“Oh...” Shiro strokes Keith’s still half-hard cock and feels him shivers with pleasurable aftershocks in his hand.

“You’re really perfect.” His grin is all lopsided, and Shiro wants to kiss him again. “Meant what I said y’know. Going to make you feel so good-”

But whatever Keith was going to say is subsumed by the click the door to Shiro’s quarters makes just before it opens. It is enough warning for the terror of discovery to pound into his skull and smack him with an instant headache, but not enough to do anything to avoid it. The door is sliding – no, it’s already open, and Matt’s voice is reaching his ears, full of well-disguised anxiety before it turns to dread.

“-not even here probably Sir. He’s been in the libra- oh. Fuck.”

Shiro wishes he could not look, but it’s like a car crash, and his eyes – and Keith’s – are irresistibly drawn toward to the open door. It’s late, the corridor should be empty, but Matt is standing there looking rumpled and like he wishes he could just transport himself into outer space without an EVA suit rather than see what he is witnessing. Standing just behind him, against all probability, is Commander Iverson. Half a heartbeat is long enough for Shiro to understand that both of them _have seen everything_.

He and Keith break apart in a tangle of limbs and Keith’s skull knocks into his painfully and they’re both turning their backs on the door as it swishes closed behind their uninvited guests.

“Hi Shiro.” Matt sounds pained. “Iverson’s looking for you.” He supplies with extreme distress.

“Right.”

“Apparently Keith isn’t in his dorm and it’s after lights out.” Every word out of Matt’s mouth only makes everything worse, because the rest of the silence is louder. “His bunkmates were worried.”

That forces a derisive snort from Keith, and Shiro blanches as he hears Iverson’s stiff formal shoes clacking on his floor. He turns.

“Mr Holt, please escort Cadet Kogane back to his dormitory before lights out.” Iverson stands rigid, staring fixedly at the wall somewhere over the top of Shiro’s head as Keith scrambles to fasten his pants and belt once more. Shiro would give anything for the ability to close the door in his commanding officer’s face, because this is not what was supposed to happen to the soft, smiling, _glowing_ boy in his arms. He yanks on the nearest discarded hoodie, uncomfortably aware of his arousal and Keith’s rapidly cooling emission on his skin, and offers Keith a sorrowful expression as he collects his homework.

Keith turns to him with his arms full and his galaxy eyes full of dark fire.

“Don’t say sorry.”

Shiro blinks, twice.

“What?”

“I’m not sorry. Not one bit.” Keith looks like he wants to kiss him again, here, now, in front of Iverson. Shiro’s cock twitches along with his adrenaline-rapid pulse and he can’t breathe all over again. “See you tomorrow.”

It’s not a question.

Keith manages a perfectly crisp salute as he passes Iverson, and scowls as Matt follows him out into the corridor. The door swishes closed again and Shiro is left alone with one of the few people he would actually admit to being scared of.

Iverson looks as uncomfortable as Shiro feels as he clears his throat.

“Report to my office at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow please Lieutenant Shirogane.”

Shiro is sure his arm shakes as he brings himself to attention and salutes.

“At ease.”

Iverson leaves, and Shiro feels anything but.

*

Shiro is almost expecting to be turned away from Iverson’s office in the morning. He is definitely predicting having to hand over his stripes. At the very least he is going to be balled out and dragged over hot coals for his gross misconduct.

But none of this happens.

Iverson greets him normally, as though Shiro often shows up to his office very early on a Saturday morning in full uniform, and Shiro stands in front of the Commander's desk with his hands balled into fists at his sides, shaking with the effort of not freaking out. There is a long, tense silence – several minutes of them both standing there looking at each other – and Shiro can see that Iverson is not only _not talking_ about the kissing, but is trying to actively bleach it from his mind as he looks at him.

Eventually, he speaks.

“That is not a regulation haircut.”

Shiro thinks of Matt’s hair, which has never been anything even vaguely approaching regulation, and Keith’s hair, which is much too long to be the short back and sides and buzzed crown the garrison prefers on its junior students. He frowns, but says nothing.

“Cadet Kogane did it for you?”

Shiro stays silent, because he’s pretty certain that firstly the answer is obvious, and secondly, Keith cutting his hair isn’t actually against the rules.

“Lieutenant Shirogane...”

“Sir?”

Iverson lets out a heavy sigh, dropping into the chair behind his desk wearily. Shiro has seen Matt wear that expression: it is the look of a man who knows things he’d rather not know.

“Please remind your co-pilot that his PADD is Garrison property.”

“Um...”

“And that his browser history is not private.”

“Oh,” Shiro knows he is blushing, because he knows – in excruciating detail – what Keith’s been looking at of late. “Yes Sir.”

Iverson doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything else, and Shiro takes half an eager but hesitant step backwards.

“Oh, Shirogane?”

“Sir?”

“Your protégé might be an incredibly gifted pilot, but as his mentor I still expect you to ensure he is in his bunk before lights out. Is that understood?”

Shiro feels dizzy: no one is this lucky. No one. But he’s not going to question the gift of Iverson’s forced ignorance.

“Yes Sir.” He replies crisply.

“That is all.”

Shiro leaves the office beaming.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come chat with us on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SashaDistan)
> 
> This author responds to comments.
> 
> Thank you to the incredible [Lole](https://twitter.com/@leandralena) for being an awesome beta reader.


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